


My Lady's Purple Supper

by madeinessos



Series: Author's Favourites [22]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Cannibalism (Mild), F/F, Hand & Finger Kink, Infidelity, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-09 05:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20508755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeinessos/pseuds/madeinessos
Summary: A froth of black Myrish lace shrouds her brother’s widow.





	My Lady's Purple Supper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alamorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/gifts).

> Title from the in-universe song "Milady's Supper."

A froth of black Myrish lace shrouds her brother’s widow.

From her place in the sept, with its hundred lighted candles and its echoing hymns for the dead king, Myrcella keeps sliding long looks at Dowager Queen Sansa, at the lace dripping from her womanly dips and curves. It veils her hair and her eyes and her lips, jealously hoarding her, leaving almost nothing above her hands.

So she regards Sansa’s hands.

Myrcella likes the black lace encasing Sansa’s long and slender fingers. Lace so fine, so shockingly sheer that Myrcella is tempted to peel them off using only her teeth. She likes how the gloves do not quite reach Sansa’s wrists; the glimpse of soft skin, of a dainty vein, makes saliva melt from Myrcella’s canines and greedily pool under Myrcella’s tongue. She likes that each glove ends with a row of tiny pearls, all of them gleaming at her whenever Sansa shifts the white rose in her grip.

And Myrcella likes how gentle Sansa’s grip seems to be.

*

The king and the queen were wed ten years ago. It happened shortly before the plague. A late-summer plague of red boils and high fever which swept the entirety of the Small Council into their graves, along with half the nobles and with more than half the smallfolk, and completely smothered the troubled stirrings in the realm.

But on that wedding day, none of them had any notion of any plague yet.

The skies were drenched in sunshine. The bells were pealing, pealing, pealing. Doves flew amidst a shower of petals. The king and the queen were stood on top of the sept’s marble steps, accepting well-wishes after the ceremony.

Myrcella remembers looking up into Queen Sansa’s big solemn eyes. Remembers clasping the queen’s hand in both of hers, and saying, girlishly, “Seven blessings upon Your Grace. I will miss you.”

The queen turned her own hand so that she was holding Myrcella’s as well. She might not look it, with her gentle voice and polite smile, but Queen Sansa had a firm grip. Unshakeable. A promise of a lurking resolve.

“And I will miss you, sweet princess.” Her other hand tucked a stray curl behind Myrcella’s ear. Her smile was fond and sisterly. “Do your duties as cupbearer well. Will you write to me?”

“Of course.”

“And tell me if there are really lions under Casterly Rock?”

Myrcella laughed. She tangled her fingers with the queen's.

Joffrey rolled his eyes and adjusted his crown. “Don’t linger, Myrcella, there are hundreds after you and I’m hungry.”

Myrcella ignored him. She widened her smile for Sansa alone and said, “May I kiss you?”

*

Ghost-like, the veil of lace shifts.

She seems to have glanced at Myrcella.

*

Queen Sansa was staring at her when she rode back home for the first time in years, in a riding gown of blacks and golds. Now a woman grown, now as tall as her mother Cersei had been, and sent to take up her lord grandfather’s place in the Small Council.

Dismounting her horse, Myrcella watched Sansa watch her.

It was the height of summer.

Queen Sansa’s auburn hair was glinting in the sun. She was radiant in clinging dove-grey silks, her dagged sleeves lined with purple velvet. Her cheeks were flushed. Her big eyes had laid aside solemnity, it seemed. And, as Myrcella drew closer, Queen Sansa’s smile widened, glistened, and reddened even more, a slice of blood-red apple.

Myrcella wanted her. And Myrcella had to have her.

All knew and all agreed that Queen Sansa was dutiful.

But much later, when Myrcella whispered against the shell of her ear, “Let me kiss you,” she squarely met Myrcella’s eyes and wordlessly nodded.

Since then Queen Sansa never said yes out loud. She always left it unspoken. Treason never slipped from her lips.

But she always nodded. Always parted her lips and her thighs, always squeezed Myrcella’s wrists, always clenched wetly whenever Myrcella pumped fingers into her cunt. Always she held Myrcella in place with that unshakeable grip. She found Queen Sansa as restless as summer and as relentless as winter. Red, blue. A rich heady purple.

Myrcella poured endless lust into Queen Sansa.

And purple-tinged wine for the king.

*

On the other hill, the bells are tolling, tolling, tolling.

On this hill, in the Red Keep’s godswood, Myrcella has long finished peeling off a queenly glove using only her teeth. And Sansa has long lifted the veil of lace, revealing her hooded, joyful eyes to Myrcella.

Now Dowager Queen Sansa squirms on a heap of grey and purple silks, her auburn hair spread out on the veil of lace, tangling with red leaves. A sheen of sweat glistens on her temples like a crown.

And her gasps wash over Myrcella, heady as honeyed wine, tight whispers of, “Yes, yes, yes.”

*

Purple hydrangeas, crushed and strewn by Myrcella in Dowager Queen Sansa’s bathwater.

Bottles of Sansa’s perfumes stood near the tub, scents of lemons and roses, sharpness lurking beneath the floral lushness. The veil of lace was folded, ready, beside them.

Dowager Queen Sansa went into the waters first. Greyish steam. Purple flowers. Shadowy. She dipped her body slowly, starting with a long leg, all the way to shoulder blades still faintly bruised from Kingsguard smacks. And then she fully submerged herself, briefly, leaving nothing but skulking bubbles.

When Sansa emerged, it was with a cascade, a quiet but relentless rush of waters. She pulled back her hair from her upturned face. Her smile was wider than it had ever been.

"Come," she told Myrcella, her voice low and sweet, "join me."

And so it was whilst they were soaking in the hot waters that Myrcella fed morsels of a heart to Dowager Queen Sansa.

From Myrcella's hand, juice kept dripping, thick, red, and spiced. Kingly.

Sansa chased it all with a quick tongue. With insistent lips. Chased it across Myrcella's palm down to her wrist.

Myrcella was close to panting.

She mouthed at Sansa’s slick shoulder. Nibbled the side of her neck where tendrils of auburn hair had stuck. Pulled and twisted and worried at Sansa’s nipple. But Myrcella lifted her head to watch as she pressed another arterial morsel onto Sansa’s tongue. She watched greedily as Sansa’s eyelashes fluttered and as Sansa's eyes rolled back; as Sansa’s hands came up from the purple waters to hold Myrcella’s hand in place even as she chewed on her bloody mouthful; as Sansa laved, gnawed, and sucked on Myrcella’s heart-smeared fingers, ravenous as a wolf.

_**fin**_


End file.
